with his eyes.
‘What are you saying?’ I mumbled through broken teeth. ‘What did he want?’
‘He wanted us to keep quiet.’ He laughed as the man came back again.
This time the man hit me until I fainted.
There was blood all over the cold floor when I awoke next. A bowl was kept next to me and I lapped up the rice and water hungrily. Ishmael was staringblankly at the bars. He smiled at me, but this time we didn’t exchange a word. I didn’t know how many hours or days it had been since the beating. I forced myself to think about escape, but the pain made it impossible to concentrate. I don’t know when I passed out again.
Someone kicked me awake. Three short, thin men were standing over me. Ishmael indicated that I needed to get up. The threat of being hit again gave me new life, and I followed Ishmael’s movements as he dragged himself up and kneeled down, pushing his free arm against the ground for support. They hosed us with water, and the cold water hit me like an electric shock. I nearly cried out in pain, but silenced myself in time.
The bath did me good, and with the blood, dirt and excrement washed away from my body, my wounds began to hurt less. I looked around once the men had left. Ishmael had shrunk to half his size. His bones stuck out of his shrivelled frame, and ugly red wounds covered every inch of his torso. His belly had swollen enormously, and I felt mine and saw that the same had happened to me. Perhaps starvation did that to you; perhaps it was some disease which had struck us both. I didn’t know. I wasn’t supposed to know. This wasn’t taught in the mechanical engineering course at MIT; this wasn’t what NASA expected me to know when I was selected to join their graduate engineering trainee programme; this wasn’t writtenin the Cambodian Lonely Planet guide. I broke into sudden, convulsive sobs.
The door swung open behind us, and the same man who had beaten us to pulp days, maybe weeks ago, entered. I shrunk against the wall but he didn’t spare me a glance. Quietly, he untied Ishmael and pulled him to his feet. Then he dragged Ishmael outside the cell, holding him by his tattered T-shirt.
Alone in the cell, I drifted in and out of consciousness. I worried intermittently about Ishmael, but mostly, I just thought about food. My throat burnt like it was on fire but I felt no thirst, just gnawing, overpowering hunger. When would they bring the rice? I licked the floor; maybe a morsel had fallen there. Nothing. I tried to imagine food. That made it worse. I tried to stop thinking about food. It felt even worse. I tried to shut my swollen eyelids but felt hungrier from the effort.
I couldn’t hold out any longer. I was dying.
Suddenly, there was the welcome sound of footsteps as a faceless man threw two bowls down on the floor. I threw myself at one of the bowls immediately and lapped up the gruel in a second, my tongue scraping against the steel again and again until it bled.
The only effect it had was to make me hungrier than I had been before.
I eyed the second bowl and was about to attack it- but stopped. Ishmael. Wherever he was, he would come back hungry. But would he come back? For one long apocalyptic moment, I wished he wouldn’t so I could eat his rice in peace. But what was stopping me now? I lunged for the bowl, tugging at the manacle around my wrist - and stopped again. I couldn’t get his face out of my mind. The seconds ticked by. I continued to eye his bowl hungrily. Just a taste, I told myself, or even just the smell. Just once, please. I tried to keep my eyes shut. It was agonizing to sit so close to the bowl, to see its curvature, to feel its texture in my mind, to smell the wafts of wondrous fragrance that seemed to come from it.
Just as I reached for the bowl once again, I heard the sound of the door opening. Two men dragged Ishmael into the cell, threw him on the floor, and left. A tiny puddle of blood began to form around his body as he lay
‘What are you saying?’ I mumbled through broken teeth. ‘What did he want?’
‘He wanted us to keep quiet.’ He laughed as the man came back again.
This time the man hit me until I fainted.
There was blood all over the cold floor when I awoke next. A bowl was kept next to me and I lapped up the rice and water hungrily. Ishmael was staringblankly at the bars. He smiled at me, but this time we didn’t exchange a word. I didn’t know how many hours or days it had been since the beating. I forced myself to think about escape, but the pain made it impossible to concentrate. I don’t know when I passed out again.
Someone kicked me awake. Three short, thin men were standing over me. Ishmael indicated that I needed to get up. The threat of being hit again gave me new life, and I followed Ishmael’s movements as he dragged himself up and kneeled down, pushing his free arm against the ground for support. They hosed us with water, and the cold water hit me like an electric shock. I nearly cried out in pain, but silenced myself in time.
The bath did me good, and with the blood, dirt and excrement washed away from my body, my wounds began to hurt less. I looked around once the men had left. Ishmael had shrunk to half his size. His bones stuck out of his shrivelled frame, and ugly red wounds covered every inch of his torso. His belly had swollen enormously, and I felt mine and saw that the same had happened to me. Perhaps starvation did that to you; perhaps it was some disease which had struck us both. I didn’t know. I wasn’t supposed to know. This wasn’t taught in the mechanical engineering course at MIT; this wasn’t what NASA expected me to know when I was selected to join their graduate engineering trainee programme; this wasn’t writtenin the Cambodian Lonely Planet guide. I broke into sudden, convulsive sobs.
The door swung open behind us, and the same man who had beaten us to pulp days, maybe weeks ago, entered. I shrunk against the wall but he didn’t spare me a glance. Quietly, he untied Ishmael and pulled him to his feet. Then he dragged Ishmael outside the cell, holding him by his tattered T-shirt.
Alone in the cell, I drifted in and out of consciousness. I worried intermittently about Ishmael, but mostly, I just thought about food. My throat burnt like it was on fire but I felt no thirst, just gnawing, overpowering hunger. When would they bring the rice? I licked the floor; maybe a morsel had fallen there. Nothing. I tried to imagine food. That made it worse. I tried to stop thinking about food. It felt even worse. I tried to shut my swollen eyelids but felt hungrier from the effort.
I couldn’t hold out any longer. I was dying.
Suddenly, there was the welcome sound of footsteps as a faceless man threw two bowls down on the floor. I threw myself at one of the bowls immediately and lapped up the gruel in a second, my tongue scraping against the steel again and again until it bled.
The only effect it had was to make me hungrier than I had been before.
I eyed the second bowl and was about to attack it- but stopped. Ishmael. Wherever he was, he would come back hungry. But would he come back? For one long apocalyptic moment, I wished he wouldn’t so I could eat his rice in peace. But what was stopping me now? I lunged for the bowl, tugging at the manacle around my wrist - and stopped again. I couldn’t get his face out of my mind. The seconds ticked by. I continued to eye his bowl hungrily. Just a taste, I told myself, or even just the smell. Just once, please. I tried to keep my eyes shut. It was agonizing to sit so close to the bowl, to see its curvature, to feel its texture in my mind, to smell the wafts of wondrous fragrance that seemed to come from it.
Just as I reached for the bowl once again, I heard the sound of the door opening. Two men dragged Ishmael into the cell, threw him on the floor, and left. A tiny puddle of blood began to form around his body as he lay
Similar Books
